


All Lost Things Are By The Train Tracks (if you look close enough, I am there)

by RealReggietales



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Experimenting with writing style, Feelings, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Memories, Nostalgia, Poetry, Post-Break Up, Sad, Sad Ending, Sadness, at least, good luck figuring out whose who, i believe so, i think, im sorry, im trying something new, its good tho, this barely makes sense, vague writing style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29972517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RealReggietales/pseuds/RealReggietales
Summary: He hates the moon.Hates the reminder of what could of been.-He loves the moon.Its beauty is mesmerizing.
Relationships: Kyoutani Kentarou/Yahaba Shigeru
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	All Lost Things Are By The Train Tracks (if you look close enough, I am there)

**Author's Note:**

> in all honesty idk where this came from but i did have my first therapy appointment today so that could be it  
> [playlist i listened to while writing this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZ9RvEaYchY&list=WL&index=1&t=29s)
> 
> its not even a sad playlist idk  
> ok note: some sad feels happening here, and at one point a character uses the term 'tainted' and 'pure'. this is not sexual, and it is slightly off putting. i just want to warn people. it is said in terms of the character feeling as if they ruing everything they touch. i am sorry.

Is it too much to wish for goodness? Both in the world, and for yourself, even at the cost of others?

People always called him selfish, when it was purely an act of self defense. It's easier to just push others away than to face the fear of ending up alone when they leave.

And they will leave.

The memory of soft kisses on his cracked and bleeding knuckles burns. The image of a dot of red on lips flashes through his mind.

The tracks of the train go on, and on.

His worn sneakers move slowly. The cold is bitter and the wind stings when it rushes past his face.

Still, he wanders on, the moon his lonely guide.

-

The window is open.

The wind blows his curtains, making billowing shapes in a dance that follows no beat.

The moon shines through, only disrupted by the bright lamp.

The pencil is a dull, faded yellow, worn by years lost.

His grip tightens, and he focuses, writing word after word, begging aimlessly not to remember.

Remember the tight grip on his arm, the roaring of the stadium, the soft brush of lips, the hand swiping the hair off his forehead.

No, it's better to distract than to remember.

-

The train tracks are lonely.

At least, that's how it seems.

Maybe it's just a reflection, the feelings he presses down trying to catch his attention in other ways.

He remembers.

On nights like these, he remembers, though he wishes otherwise.

The thin fingers, laced through his own, the light hair falling on his shoulder, the light laugh that swept by like a midday breeze.

He does not want to think, to feel.

Those times are long gone.

-

His hand stings.

He has brushed the lamp, which burns too hot.

He turns it off.

The unfinished work lays on the desk, its thin shape showing disappointment, and regret, in the moonlight.

It illuminates more than just the physical.

Moonlight can show just exactly what you are too afraid to face in the daylight, forcing a confession, drawing it out.

It is guilty of many sins, and although people praise its beauty, he denounces it.

He hates the moon.

Hates the reminder of what could of been.

-

He loves the moon.

Its beauty is mesmerizing.

He loves how he can only admit these thoughts to the moon, how it is always there, even if it is not in sight.

He loves the fact that it cannot leave.

Though he hates to admit it, the moon is the holder of his secrets, the documentation of his words, though most remain unspoken.

It knows much

Much more than anyone else.

The moon knows exactly how badly his heart has been damaged, has held him in his worst moments.

Its shine is not blazing hot, its shine is not an interrogation.

Its shine is a friend, one who will listen.

And although it will never answer, he can't help but tell it everything.

-

The ball lays lonely in the corner of his room.

It has collected dust, and it sticks to his fingers as he picks it up.

It was the only thing he was allowed to touch, without any input from another despaired voice.

It was the only thing he could touch without tainting.

It was the best part of his life.

The moon makes him admit it.

It was only second best.

Second best to _him._

He sets the ball down.

And with it comes the stinging of tears in his eyes.

-

There are many abandoned things by the train tracks.

Bottles, bags, hopes, dreams, happiness.

He thinks that everything lost ends up here, at least at one point in time.

Maybe that's why he's here.

Is he lost?

The moon may know, but as he asks, he receives no answer.

There's a familiar shape glinting in the moonlight, one he knows by heart.

It's a ball.

One that brings back things he'd rather leave forgotten.

When he gets closer, he realizes it's their ball.

The one that they used together.

The hands set it.

He spikes it.

How did it end up here?

How did it end up lost? 

When did he realize it went missing?

Or did he never realize?

Is this what happened to them? The two of them together?

Were they lost by the train tracks?

Is this ball what remained of the feelings shared between two on a cold night?

He picks up the ball.

Then he sets it down.

It is lost.

Just like him.

Just like _him._

-

The ball sits in the corner of his vision.

When did things go wrong?

How did they go wrong?

When did happy grins turn into blank expressions?

They both had a hand in what happened.

But he can't help but blame himself.

The curtains billow, and he rests his elbows on the windowsill.

The moon glares at him, screaming at him, begging him to reveal the truth.

The boy he once was is long gone, time having wound its gears too tightly, refusing to let him go.

Maybe that boy he once was was the reason he fell in love with him.

He never took off the mask for anyone, strict voices telling him things would hurt otherwise.

Maybe those voices that still echo in his head were wrong.

Yet it is far too late to tell them that.

It is far too late to tell _him_ that.

-

Sometimes he wonders if the voices of the others pushed him too far into himself.

Are they the reason he is alone now, and lost?

Or was it his fault for listening to them?

It is cold, and he shivers, those lost voices of what once could have been friends echoing in his skull.

They taunt him, asking for the improbable, feelings he would rather keep secret.

He was too busy trying to resist, that he wonders if they ever noticed that he had lost the key to the lock long ago.

He wonders if he ever noticed that the key was lost.

Someone had picked the lock.

And it was wonderful.

Until it was not.

And now he's gone, lock-picks with him.

Did he take his feelings with him?

Because it feels like he'll never feel again.

Not after him.

-

There was fighting and screaming and crying.

Someone is storming out, running away.

How did it end up like this?

Text after text after text after call after call after call.

No response.

Noresponsenoresponsenoresponsenoresponse.

He hasn't responded in weeks.

Finally, a message.

He wants closure.

He doesn't like the way things ended.

A cafe, a blank stare, sadness, an agreement not to see each other, closure.

It's over.

The best thing in his life.

Is over.

It's his fault.

-

He blames himself.

The moon knows this.

No one else knows, but they all believe he's the one that broke _his_ heart.

No one really knows that it was broken to begin with, and he was just the duct tape that kept it together.

He was a temporary fix.

The moon knows this.

The train tracks trick him into thinking it's not his fault.

He's not the one who said those things, even if it was pressure from peers, and parents, and teachers, and everyone else.

But he was the one who acted like that.

He was the one who scared everyone away.

So really, it's his fault.

He's the reason his heart no longer functions exactly right.

He's the reason he belongs by the train tracks.

-

The train tracks are barely visible from his window.

He's been down there before, he knows what it's like, and the feeling of belonging with those lost items does not bring him any good feelings.

Instead, he's nervous.

When he goes down there, he feels as if he is just as replaceable as all those things down by the train tracks.

Every night, without fail, a person walks by the tracks.

Always late, always slow, and he can only see them when the moon is bright.

But it eases his fears.

Knowing he's not the only one that feels lost.

That he's not the only one who's replaceable.

It's comforting, in a way the moon is not.

That person is still walking, consistent.

They are more consistent than all the other people in his life, and he does not know them.

Strangely, they remind him of the one other person who was stable, a constant in his life.

He knows that projecting his unresolved feelings is unfair to the person below, but the moon forces him to admit it.

That silhouette illuminated vaguely by the moon is the one other pure person, that he has not tainted.

\- 

Every night, without fail, the eyes watch him.

He can feel them, though he cannot see them, but they are comforting.

Familiar, in a way that is only told to the moon.

It is always in the same spot.

The eyes remind him of younger days, when he was wild, and uncontrollable.

They would watch him, and he would stare.

Even now, when people stare, it is not the same.

Those stares hold hostility.

These stares hold comfort, and familiarity.

He cannot help but wish it was him.

The stare is filled with warmth.

It lights up his whole body, in only a way he could.

It's unfair.

He shouldn't feel this way.

Feelings do not care what he thinks.

-

He goes to bed.

The person is gone, and the uneasy feeling is back.

He is as lost as those pieces of trash at the side of the train tracks.

He had lost him, just like he had lost the familiar feeling of holding that ball that stays stagnant in the corner of his room.

He is lost.

Lost, and never to be found.

-

He is back where he started.

His legs ache.

It makes him miss the ache of old practices.

The familiar weight of a ball.

Did he lose that feeling along with the ball at the train tracks?

The stairs are quiet.

His steps are soft.

His bed is lacking a warmth that he longs to feel once again.

The moon shines through his window.

It hits the desk drawer, and stumbles over to it.

He grabs the handle, and slowly pulls it open.

Photos.

Photos he had thrown in here, too attached to throw away.

It depicts _him,_ captures him in a way that he will never see again.

The photos are thrown on the floor, and he kneels beside them.

Picking them up and placing them carefully, he creates a ring of him staring back.

The gaze is stronger than the moon.

It could always make him open up easier than he ever thought possible.

The gaze is gone, though.

It is gone, over, and lost.

It is lost.

They are lost.

He is lost.

Just like the old belongings by the train tracks.

**Author's Note:**

> Gifted kid feelings??  
> yes  
> ok but like i hope this was kinda clear?  
> it's the second vague story i've written, except you can't tell which is which.  
> I see it as Kyoutani first, then Yahaba, switching back and forth  
> But you can interpret it any other way!  
> I wanted to branch out a bit in my writing style, and try to convey despair, and unsaid feelings  
> hope this was good!  
> thanks for reading :)


End file.
